


Ten Things John Watson Has Never Done

by orphan_account



Series: Running and Catching [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abelism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Bullying, Christmas, Cochlear Implant, Deaf Character, Drinking, Explicit Sex, Fingering, Helicopter, M/M, Reckless Behavior, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Sign Language, Young Sherlock, abliest language, driving blind, flying blind, top ten list, young john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A list.”  Sherlock held the pen over the paper, his eyes fixated on John’s mouth which was set in a frown.  He was twenty-two, Sherlock discovered over dinner which Mrs Hudson had sent up from the Chinese place down the street.  He was twenty-two and there was a list of things he’d never done.</p><p>“Sherlock, you honestly want me to make a list of things I’ve never done?  You do realise that list could go on for… well for infinity, right?”</p><p>Sherlock crossed the room, paper in hand, and he shoved it into John’s palm.  “Top then, John.  Top ten.  Top ten and we’ll do them all and I do not care what they are.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sheep in Pink Hoodies

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to everyone who asked for more in this verse. It'll be eleven chapters total. Some short, some longer. Most nonsense. Just a bit of fun. But it will have a mature rating for later chapters.

“A list.” Sherlock held the pen over the paper, his eyes fixated on John’s mouth which was set in a frown. He was twenty-two, Sherlock discovered over dinner which Mrs Hudson had sent up from the Chinese place down the street. He was twenty-two and there was a list of things he’d never done. Sherlock now wanted that list. Data. He wanted the data. How else was he going to have enough information to predict John’s future reactions to things if this boy did not have the experiences necessary to gauge reaction.

John was gripping the top of his cane, leaning against the chair as Sherlock talked and his head was shaking. He let out a nervous laugh. “Sherlock, you honestly want me to make a list of things I’ve never done? You do realise that list could go on for… well for infinity, right?”

Sherlock crossed the room, paper in hand, and he shoved it into John’s palm. “Top then, John. Top ten. Top ten and we’ll do them all and I do not care what they are.”

**Number One. John Watson has never driven a car.**

It seemed like a mad idea. At least to John Watson it seemed like a mad idea. Especially the John Watson who barely left his mum’s flat on his own. Strike that, who never left his mum’s flat on his own. Now he’d been gone two full days and his mobile was broken. There’s been an announcement of sorts, a desperate mother looking for the renegade criminal who’d kidnapped her disabled son.

John had dropped his tea cup on the floor at the use of the phrase disabled. That, in all honesty, is what sparked the list. Sparked the list and prompted Sherlock to shove the paper at John who then claimed he couldn’t write. So Sherlock, instead of doing it for him, put his hand over John’s and they drew the letters together.

Number one was drive a car.

So here that sat now, in the middle of nowhere in Ireland of all fucking places because Sherlock was peckish but for one pub in particular and it was in bloody Ireland for fuck’s sake. They also hired a car since Sherlock didn’t have one. Though he’d made a call to the, “Most obnoxious and most unhelpful person on the planet,” who unhelpfully told Sherlock to piss off with whatever plan he was conducting.

So hiring the car it was. Which was a bit mad in itself because Sherlock had no driving license but he had money and the man behind the counter really really wanted a new xbox. By the sounds of the paper being exchanged it was a damn lot of money and could probably buy more than an xbox. Either way there they were, now in the middle of the field and John at the wheel with Sherlock directly to his left and my god… my god he was going to do this.

“So you’ve sorted out your gears and pedals and steering wheel. Windscreen means nothing to you so don’t bother remembering any of that. Or the mirrors I suppose.” Sherlock tapped his chin with his long finger and sighed. “Well, best get to it. Come on. I’ll guide you.”

He was fairly certain he was going to puke all over his lap, but instead he put the car into gear and followed Sherlock’s terse but effective instructions on how to make the car go forward. And once or twice Sherlock did have to straighten out the wheel since John’s sense of straight line on a road was fairly rubbish. But they were doing it and John didn’t realise he was crying and laughing until the tear fell from his chin and left a chilly spot in its wake.

Sherlock noticed, but said nothing. 

_“Stop!”_

John slammed on the break, forgot to push the clutch in and the car shuddered and stalled. His hands were shaking at the sudden shout, and he turned his face to the detective who he wasn’t sure was ruining his life or making it better. “Did we hit something? What did I do?”

“Sheep in the road,” Sherlock said. 

John heard the door open and shut, and only by the grace of god did he remember there was a parking break and he pulled it up before climbing out. He’d forgotten his stick so he kept one hand on the car as he manoeuvred round the front and he could hear Sherlock muttering to himself about the peculiar state of the sheep.

“What the hell is it? Is there something wrong with them?”

Sherlock looked up, startled as he seemed to remember he had someone with him and waved his hand despite John’s inability to see the gesture. “Sheep. They’re wearing jumpers.”

John snorted a little and shook his head. “Jumpers? Like what? Ugly Christmas ones?”

“Expensive ones. With zips and logos on the back. They’re all rather…” Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Pink.”

Taking two tentative steps forward, the rather agreeable sheep stayed extremely still whilst John’s hand darted out and explored. Their heads and shorn necks bowed beneath his finger and it wasn’t until he got to the hood part that he paused and let his hands roam a little freely. “Sheep in hoodies.”

Sherlock stood, a smile spreading from ear to ear as he walked up and threw his arm round John. “Well now you can say, John Watson, you’ve driven a car and you’ve seen sheep in pink hoodies.”


	2. Wanted

2\. John Watson has never told off his mum.

DI Lestrade was less than thrilled to make the house call to 221B Baker Street. Of course Sherlock was more than pleased to receive and rebuke him when he came to request Sherlock return John to his rightful home.

“Like he’s a pet?” Sherlock asked, his voice indignant. Having been there a fortnight now, John recognised the shuffft sound as Sherlock lifting the collar of his coat he often insisted on wearing inside, outside, wherever, regardless of the weather. “As though she owns him?”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade sounded exasperated and closer to John now, who was perched in what he had dubbed ‘his chair’ with a cuppa balanced on his knee. So far Sherlock was the only other human being on the planet who could make the tea the way John actually liked it and he was loathe to give that up now.

“I won’t hear of it. He’s not leaving.”

“You realise I don’t have much choice. She’s been on the news, Sherlock. Accusing you of kidnapping her disabled son.”

John let out a huff as he set the tea on the table. “I’m not incapable of anything other than seeing, Detective Inspector.”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade gave a start when John spoke. It wasn’t often he voiced things and living with a deaf man over the last fourteen days encouraged that.

“Listen son…”

“I’m not a child.” Rising from the chair, John took careful steps so as not to upset anything that Sherlock might have lying about since he often did that, not even thinking of John which both infuriated him and endeared him to the consulting detective. His cane was perched near the violin stand and he retrieved it, making his way toward Lestrade. “I’m not an invalid, I’m not a ward of the state, nor am I a ward of my mother.”

There was an uncomfortable pause and John didn’t need to see to know Sherlock was smirking. “Then I suggest you inform the woman of your whereabouts and perhaps fetch your things. And possibly ask her to stop harassing the press as her pleas for your return are taking up valuable airtime.”

“From what?” Sherlock admonished. “Celebrity gossip?”

“For the first time in your life please listen to reason and at least go talk to this woman. She phones the station every day and it’s getting exhausting.” With a muttered good day, Lestrade was gone and Sherlock was laughing that deep, rumbling laugh that vibrated through the entire room.

John though, was quaking a bit and had gone completely pale. “Should I though? Go there? You don’t think it’s mad? What if she refuses to let me leave?”

Grabbing his scarf and winding it round John’s neck, Sherlock used it to pull his new flatmate over and held him at arm’s length. “She won’t refuse me. People don’t refuse me things if I don’t let them.”

Moments later they were hurtling down the streets, John gripping tight to Sherlock as the motorbike ripped through cars and pedestrians. More than once John heard honking, or felt the close brush of a car as Sherlock took sharp turns and made close calls. But eventually they were at the address and John was standing on the stoop with his cane in hand and a steel look on his face hoping to borrow Sherlock’s determination.

The door flung open and his blubbering mum launched herself at him, but John managed to side step her and she embraced the stoop instead. Taking a few paces down toward the street where Sherlock was waiting, he faced the woman. “I’ve only come to ask you to stop contacting the news.”

There was a pregnant pause as she righted herself and fixed a glare on her son. “And who’s this then? The man who kidnapped you? With one of those cults, is he? Brainwashed you?” She turned her head. “Harry! Phone the police now! The man who kidnapped your brother is here!”

A moment later Harry appeared in the doorway looking dishevelled as usual and tired. She looked between John and Sherlock, then smirked at her mum. “That’s the bloke who took him?”

“Sister.” The hiss came from behind him, from Sherlock’s mouth as the detective took a step closer to John. “Harry’s your sister.”

“Yes,” John said slowly.

“Bugger. It’s always one thing. One. Damn it!”

John smirked, pleased Sherlock hadn’t figured it all out. Not every bit of it. Though what he worked out was impressive enough. Either way, he turned back to his mum. “I’ve not been brainwashed, mum. I’m just tired of being here. It’s time for me to move out.”

“See, you’re talking mad. My Johnny would never say things like that.”

“He would, if only you’d listen. I swear you’re more deaf than I am, woman.”

Her gaze snapped to Sherlock’s implants. “You expect me to let you, a blind boy, go and live with a deaf man. Johnny, are you mad?”

“Again, no. And honestly how we get on is none of your never mind. Can I get my things or no?”

She sputtered. “If you think I’ll give up this easily…”

Her words were cut off when Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and yanked him close. “Come on now, be agreeable just this once. It’s not like he won’t come round for tea every now and again.”

“John.” Her voice sounded strained and broken, and John felt his resolve slipping. Well, until Sherlock’s fingers gripped his. “Please trust me, I know what’s best.”

“Yes, what’s best for you. Not what’s best for me.” John backed up into Sherlock further and felt Sherlock’s arm come round his waist. He felt stronger, sure of himself. Wanted. “I suppose I can replace my things. Come on, Sherlock.”

“Johnny!” Her voice called out as John followed Sherlock back to the bike. “Where will you go? Answer me or I’ll phone the police!”

John shook his head. “I’ll be round for tea sometime, mother. Give Harry my best when she’s sober.”

They were gone after that, her voice fading into the background, and after a little while they were loaded with Chinese take-away and back in the familiar smells and sounds and comforts of Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was home, down in her own apartments drinking tea and watching crap telly and laughing so loud they could hear her all the way up in their lounge. But it was nice and it was comfortable and John knew for the first time in a long time, he belonged somewhere.


	3. Dead Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration from this chapter comes mostly from the pilot episode. I'll introduce Mycroft a little later.

3\. John Watson has never killed a man.

“You’d be good at it. Really good at it. I don’t see the problem.”

“Well the problem happens to be I can’t see.” John huffed and crossed his arms, lifting his leg and catching the table with the corner of his shoe. The tea cup balanced precariously on the edge went toppling over. Luckily there were only dredges left but it was enough to prove his point. “Imagine something like that happening to me whilst examining a patient.”

“It’s happened before.” Sherlock was pacing, and John was having a hard time keeping track of his location, though he was getting used to the way Sherlock behaved now they’d been living in the flat for a month. “You can’t expect to sit round and blog all day.”

“Are you saying that because you don’t like my critique?”

Sherlock huffed and sputtered and then flopped down in his chair. “Your critiques mean nothing to me John. You’re coming with me to examine the body.”

John sat there in silence for several moments. “Um no, Sherlock, I’m not. You’re not dragging me to a crime scene to…”

“It’s at the morgue,” he said flippantly. “Molly’s been informed. Lestrade needs my deductions by the afternoon. Get your coat.”

Though by now John should have learnt not to argue with Sherlock when he became determined, he attempted to, only to find himself hauled to his feet and shoved into his coat like a petulant toddler. Sherlock slapped his cane into his hand and pushed him against the wall whilst he wound his scarf round his neck.

“It’s on the list, anyway.”

John’s eyes went wide. “On the list? What, examining dead bodies? I didn’t put that on the list.”

“I’ve added it. I crossed off taking up running because a morning run routine is rubbish, no one has time for it, and it’s boring. We’re here to do things that aren’t boring, John. Solving crimes and examining dead bodies are…” he sighed. “Oh will you just trust me.” Then he grabbed John’s hand and they were hurtling down the stairs.

A car was waiting for them out front, which John appreciated because he wasn’t sure that he could handle the anticipation of being in the exam room with a murder victim whilst hurtling round the streets on Sherlock’s bike. He fiddled with the top of his cane, tapping his fingers on it until Sherlock took it away, annoyed by the sound.

He got it back when they pulled up to St Bart’s, and he had just enough time to grab the edge of Sherlock’s coat sleeve as he stormed inside. He called out orders to a few people who were murmuring nearby, and before John could really orient himself or even begin to understand where they were, he was in a room and gloves were being shoved on his hands.

“What is that smell?”

“Combination of things, all necessary, don’t worry about it,” Sherlock murmured. He let John’s arm go and turned, the swoosh of his coat sending a rush of air into John’s face. “Molly, take notes. John, over here if you will.”

“Sherlock, I’m not so sure he should be…”

Sherlock cut Molly off with a growl. “Your job is to take notes, not to interrupt my work. John,” he said, now impatient, “if you please.”

With a sigh, John leant his cane on the wall, then followed the sound of Sherlock’s voice until his hand met with an exam table. He knew there was a body on it, and his stomach gave a little turn. “What am I doing here, Sherlock?”

“Observing.” Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and brought him round to the other side. “Tell me what you observe.”

Closing his eyes, John took in a deep breath and then realised there was a distinct smell. Vomit. Old and faint, but it was there. He dropped his face in closer. No signs of alcohol or the like. With careful but hesitant fingers, he crept along the table til he met skin. It was firm still, cold but had some give. He pressed along the arm, up to the throat, then across the cheeks and face. “How freshly dead?”

Sherlock turned to Molly and raised his eyebrows expectantly at her. She fumbled then said, “Two hours at best. She was brought in just before you arrived.”

Sherlock looked back at John. “What are you thinking?”

“She possibly choked to death on her own vomit, but no signs of alcohol.”

Sherlock seemed quite pleased with his answer, then began to rattle off all the things he observed about her. Poisoned, he declared. Part of a serial killer string of suicides that he intended on solving. Lestrade showed up, irritated by John’s presence but Sherlock wouldn’t hear of it. Informed Lestrade he should expect to see more of John. Then he left. Just left John there with Molly and the Detective Inspector and the dead body and he had to get a cab back home. He was less than pleased.

So less than pleased he almost walked out and went back home. But hours later there was a scuffle and a thump. He could hear voices, quiet ones. Sherlock and someone else. That someone else sounded threatening.

Knowing where Sherlock kept his handgun, he walked with near silent steps to retrieve it. Sherlock had showed him the other day how to use it. To push a little button here, to put your finger there. To listen, hone in, point and pray. He hadn’t fired it yet though. Hadn’t had the chance.

John knew something was wrong. Sherlock was… there was something happening. Something not quite right. His words were unclear, slurred, confused. Drugged, maybe? He hated his experiences with anything came from listening to telly and reading the very limited selection of books which came in Braille.

He padded down the hall, one hand on the gun, the other on the wall. He kept to the spots where the floorboards didn’t creek. Something was happening. Sherlock was in danger.

“What d’you say, Sherlock Holmes? Shall we do this. Or shall I hold you down and force you to take it? What are you afraid of? Have you not got me beat?”

Whatever Sherlock said was unintelligible to John, but the man seemed to understand because he laughed.

“On three then? One… two…”

John raised the gun and fired. By instinct. By fear and desire to protect. By confidence because he’d been listening and not got caught yet. The gun was louder than he’d expected it to be. So was the thud of the body. Suddenly Sherlock was him, too and the gun was tossed somewhere and John was shoved into the back room and within minutes there were police absolutely everywhere.

John Watson had never killed a man. And now he had.

*** 

“I heard that woman. Sally. She said you get off on it. Stuff like this. It’s true, isn’t it? You were going to take that pill.”

Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and spun him round a second. John expected to be let go, but he wasn’t. “And you. John Watson, the blind invalid living with his mummy doing nothing with his life. John Watson who just killed a man and standing here steady as a rock.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Well, he wasn’t a very good man.”

Sherlock’s laugh was rich and deep and surprised John in the best way. He pulled him in, a kiss pressed to the corner of John’s mouth which made his face go hot and tingly. “No,” Sherlock murmured. “He wasn’t, was he?”


	4. He Doesn't Swear

4\. John Watson has never been so surprised…

He’d been by the window, and he heard the shuffling and the grunting but had no idea what Sherlock was getting up to until he tripped over three large boxes which most definitely had not been there when he’d come across the room to the window minutes before.

“Bloody hell,” he swore.

From the doorway where Sherlock stood with another box—heavy if the look on his face was anything to go by—in his arms. He smirked at the swear. John Watson was not one to use that sort of language. Yet. He would be though. He was the sort, just very deep down.

“What the hell are you doing?” John was sitting on the floor rubbing a bruised shin with one hand whilst the other was feeling round the top of the box. “What is all this?”

“Don’t make that face, John. These are for you.” Sherlock heaved the fourth box on top of the other three and ripped open the top. He extended a hand absently, and despite not being able to see it, John knew it was there, took it, and hauled himself up. He shook off his leg whilst Sherlock reached inside the box and then lobbed a ruddy huge pile of something in his hands.

With a frown, forced to take a step back with the weight of the thing, he inspected it. It took him only a second to trace out the bumps littered across the top. “Moby Dick?” he asked slowly.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m finding it a bit disturbing how little actual braille there is. I mean, an entirely new writing system, billions of items out there with the written word and there are only a handful of titles available. No logic behind it. Did you make tea?” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he wandered into the kitchen for a cuppa.

Not sure what to think, not sure why Sherlock had brought home four full boxes of braille texts, most of which he’d read during his years of tutoring, and he had no idea what the consulting detective actually wanted him to do with it.

“Language,” Sherlock said as he came back into the room. He took his usual seat across from John, crossed one ankle over his knee, and watched as John’s fingers absently traced the bumps on the open page. “It’s a funny thing, language. Necessary. When humans are deprived of a sense of language they develop their own. Indigenous tribes with Deaf members create their own signs. When brought together with others, they marry that language to create something new. It’s been documented more than once.”

John’s fingers stilled and he turned his face up. “Are you speaking from experience?” Sherlock never spoke about his childhood. He knew Sherlock had parents, an older brother, and that was it. Occasionally he’d get a text from one of them which sent him into a raging tantrum. John tried to calm him down from it once. It hadn’t ended well.

“Like you, John, I was born deprived of a sense. Profound, as the doctors describe it. But senses are…” he trailed off for a moment, falling into a silence which John knew could last for seconds, minutes, even days. “Total blindness is what they call yours. You see the minimal amount of light. The difference between light and shadow.” He waved his hand in front of the sun coming through the window and John blinked rapidly for a second. Sherlock smiled. “Without a sense we’re forced to modify. We’re forced to navigate the world differently. Sometimes we’re altered.” He tapped his implant which made a clicking noise against his fingernail. “Sometimes we’re protected. Regardless, even surrounded by others, we’re isolated and we come up with a different language with which to navigate the world.”

John sat there listening, his hands holding the book but no longer reading it. “Is that why you like me, Sherlock? You relate?” It stung, the thought, because he liked Sherlock for a whole host of other reasons besides relating to this mad man. Some of which being simply that Sherlock didn’t treat him like he needed to navigate the world differently.

The silence stretched on for some time, and then Sherlock leant forward. “My friend Molly’s agreed to be your assistant. You’ll need one, unfortunately. Someone sighted. She’s first year as well so you’ll only have a few months of catching up to do, and you’re practically a genius, at least according to normal standards. I’ll help.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” John asked.

“You said you wanted to become a doctor.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “I did. I also said that there’s no point being that I can’t see a bloody thing and half my job will be to…”

“Diagnose.” Sherlock got up and began to pace. “Assess symptoms, diagnose, treat, and cure. Yes all of those things. Most of those things don’t actually require a look. And with a sighted assistant surely you can deduce a patient’s ailment with a visual description.”

“I… Sherlock…” John’s voice was low, almost a growl. His frustration with his flatmate was increasing by the second. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock paused mid-step, foot poised in the air as he always took dramatic steps when he paced. “I want to learn Braille and what better teacher than you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m also going to teach you tactile sign because there have been multiple times on cases in which you knowing it would have benefited us greatly.” Sherlock dropped into his seat, this time sideways so his legs were hooked round the arm of the chair. “It won’t take long.”

Hands gripping the book so tightly his knuckles went white, John leant forward. “Sherlock. Answer me or I swear to god, I’ll walk out the door.”

Flipping round so fast John had almost no time to adjust, Sherlock was on his knees in front of the blind man, gripping John’s hands which were holding the book. “Think, John. It’s unconventional but nothing should be out of your reach. Driving, reading, writing, shooting a man. I’ll tear the world apart to give you the things you want simply because nothing should be denied a person like you.”

Trembling fingers went up to Sherlock’s mouth, touching the corner. It was turned down, serious. Sherlock’s skin heated and twitched under the pads of John’s fingers. “Sherlock I…”

“You’ll do it because you want to, and when you assume the title Doctor Watson, the world will understand that enough is enough.” Sherlock closed his fingers round John’s wrist and brought it down on top of the book. “Teach me braille and I’ll teach you signs, and you’ll go to school, and I’ll catch serial killers. Life John, we’ll live it.” He leant forward a moment and took a long whiff of John’s soap. It was woodsy and clean. “So tick this off the list. John Watson has never become a doctor.”


	5. Not A Good Day To Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. I am a rubbish human being, all caught up in other fandoms. Also I got asked for a Vampire Diaries fic in a tumblr request and I've never watched it. Is this a thing I should be watching?

5\. John Watson has never been kidnapped....

It wasn’t easy, living with Sherlock Holmes. He could say it a thousand times a day and it would never cease to surprise him just how infuriating the man could be. He banged about half the time without his device turned on, so most of the time he couldn’t hear John’s complaints.

Even with the tactile sign John was learning at a rapid pace, most of the time he wasn’t bothered to pay attention to what John was signing to begin with. It. Was. Infuriating.

Half the time John had to wonder if Sherlock wanted him there in the first place. Sometimes Sherlock was intense. A heat pouring off him, and sometimes he said things that made John feel like he was the only person in the world for Sherlock. The only one that mattered.

And sometimes John was sure Sherlock just lobbed him into his mental bank with the rest of the idiots that roamed the planet. And that broke his heart a bit. From time to time.

But he was never so sure until Moriarty. When Sherlock’s very sanity was on the line. He was confused and angry because he could not work out Moriarty. It was too much. And though he was solving those little puzzles faster and faster, hardly needing John’s help at all, it wasn’t coming to an end.

It was too easy.

Too easy, Sherlock had screamed before John left for the market.

“Going to pick up milk, since you’ve forgot again,” John said.

“Take my card. Get biscuits and tea. I promised Mrs Hudson.”

John huffed but did as Sherlock asked. He had the path to the shops memorised by now anyhow and he was growing more confident in his ability to be independent. So he did it. And he expected it would be like every other time he went to the shops.

Only it wasn’t. And he was taken.

Unable to see the person, he heard the voice. Soft. Irish. Bit mad. Moriarty. It wasn’t hard to work that out. Moriarty had found Sherlock’s Achilles heel. It was him.

He could tell they were near a pool. He could hear the pump, the gentle lapping of water even though there was no one in it. He could smell the chemicals in the air. They burned his lungs as he attempted to keep his breathing even. The device in his ear was telling him what to say.

He had to wonder, what did Sherlock’s face look like? Did he, even for a second, think it was him?

“Sign it,” the voice said. John did his best with what he knew. There was a hesitation in Sherlock’s voice, but then Moriarty’d had enough of their little game and came out for a proper chat. All fingers and hands and John had no clue what they were saying, but he had an idea and he went for it.

“Just run,” he said, holding Moriarty by the neck. “Just go.”

He had to imagine Sherlock wasn’t very pleased with that, and nor were the snipers John hadn’t heard. Wherever they were. But he heard the quiet hum of the lasers pointed at them.

The rest was a blur. He was certain he was to die. Especially after Moriarty returned and John knew Sherlock could just end it and would. He heard the ever so slight tremble in his hands as he held the gun tighter.

“Sorry boys. Wrong day to die.”

And that was it.

John sat stock still against the cold, tiled wall and felt something rush through him. That was it. For now at least, it was over.

Suddenly Sherlock’s hands were on him, like they had been before when he’d asked in that tense, angry voice, “Are you alright?”

Only this time they were touching his face, turning his head from side to side, taking a visual account because that’s what Sherlock had. Vision. And the fingers were gentle but pressing and they didn’t stop til John’s hands came up, curling round Sherlock’s wrists.

He heard the sharp intake of breath, and the muted sob as Sherlock sagged down against him. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Bit of a close one then, wasn’t it?” He felt Sherlock nod against him, Sherlock’s face in his neck. He reached up to touch those curls he rarely got to explore, revelling in the silky texture. “It’s not over, is it.”

“No, John,” the deep baritone said, vibrating through his skin. “It’s not over.”

Sherlock lifted his head and put a hand to John’s cheek. “Do be a good boy though, John, and refrain from giving me a scare like that again. I’m unaccustomed to it and I find I rather dislike that feeling.”

John laughed, then Sherlock laughed. It bubbled up, all hysteria and unspoken emotions and they collapsed against each other, tears pouring, heads shaking. And suddenly the sound stopped. It became all feeling and touch as Sherlock’s mouth pressed to John’s. It was unlike any touch they’d ever experienced as Sherlock’s hands fisted into the front of John’s shirt, and John flailed until he made contact with Sherlock’s shoulders, then drew his hands round the back of his neck and held him there so tightly.

“Promise me,” Sherlock whispered against John’s mouth. “Please.”

“I promise,” John replied, holding on tightly. “We can add that to the list. John Watson has never been kidnapped and strapped to a bomb.”

“And we can add another. Because it will never happen again.”


	6. Who Is This?

6\. John Watson has never gone _there_ before. 

He was unceremoniously lobbed forward and his hands reached out to brace himself on whatever might be in front of him so he didn’t hit the floor face first. He did not, however, expect his hands to come into contact with very firm, plaint, very naked breasts. He drew back, as though he’d touched a flame, and the low, husky chuckle of the woman filled his ears.

John’s head snapped to the side where he knew Sherlock was still standing. “What are you playing at? Who is this?”

“Oh don’t get too upset, he’s just winding you up.” The woman was circling him, and John felt decidedly off balance and totally out of his element. She was throwing off his sense of direction which he relied on. Heavily.

“Do stop that. I can’t keep track of where you are,” he snapped.

He heard the soft clicking of her heels go still and he turned to the right til he was certain he was facing her. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Sherlock.”

“He hasn’t got friends,” John blurted, then he flushed because Sherlock had a few friends. Well, one at least. Standing in the middle of a room talking to a naked woman. Or so he assumed.

“I’ve got a few,” Sherlock replied after a moment, and John could hear the hurt in his voice. No one else would be able to tell, but John could. 

“Irene,” the woman said, and she was closer to John than he expected, and he gave a little jump. “Sherlock said you’re studying to become a doctor.”

“I am. Why?”

“Well, how do you expect to do such a thing if you haven’t learnt all your anatomy?”

John’s face went a bit hot and he clenched his fingers into fists at his side. “I know plenty of anatomy, thank you.”

“So you’ve touched breasts, then? Vaginas?” When John attempted to reply, all that came out was a muffled hum, and Irene laughed. She touched his shoulder with gentle fingertips. “I owe Sherlock a favour. This is me fulfilling that. Have at me.”

*** 

“Are you still not speaking to me?” Sherlock asked after John hadn’t said a word for more than an hour. He put John’s tea down on the table where it always went, and he lowered himself into his usual chair. “John, honestly, pouting is beneath you.”

“Is it?” John barked, startled at how harsh his voice came out.

“I was only trying to help.”

“Your version of help is rubbish.” He was so frustrated, he nearly missed his tea, his finger knocking into the handle of the cup and it nearly toppled off the edge. He managed to save it, with only a slight, uncomfortable burn from the boiled liquid. Sticking the side of his thumb in his mouth, he sat back with the tea in hand. “I don’t enjoy being put on the spot like that.”

“Will you think differently when you have your first patient who needs to know the state of their breasts?”

“You do realise I will have on the job training. I will be actually performing things like that in an educational setting. It’s not up to you to help me. Not in this area.”

“So ticking off, 'John Watson Has Never Touched Breasts', from your list… you want to skip over that one?”

John’s face went still and he didn’t argue when Sherlock shoved himself into the chair, making it a tight squeeze, but more comfortable than John would have wanted.

“I’ve got you worked out, you know,” John said, and he let his head fall on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Do you?” Sherlock gave a little hum as John reached out and closed his fingers round Sherlock’s wrist.

“You wanted to know if I liked it. Being that I’d never tried it. You were trying to work out what I really wanted.”

“And?”

There was a moment’s pause before John gave the arm a squeeze, then took a long drink of the tea. “And I think you’re a damned idiot.”


	7. Poisoned Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No excuses for my lateness. Please forgive me. Also hoping this isn't total rubbish. I was trying to think of a way John helps Sherlock deal with his internalised abelism and this is a start. Ish. Either way hopefully everyone is pleased with this. And if you have ideas on what you'd like to read John do in future chapters please comment (I beg you). I could always use inspiration. xxx

7\. John Watson has never taken Sherlock down a peg… or ten.

Living with Sherlock was a chore. An utter chore. At first John thought it might be difficult, a blind man living with a deaf one, but that wasn’t it. Sherlock relied on those implants nestled in his thick curls and whilst he did turn them off to shut off the world, it was at his own convenience. The truth was, Sherlock often didn’t get things.

Sometimes he believed John could conquer the world on his own. Sometimes he thought John was incapable of putting the kettle on. In Sherlock’s defence, there were often terrible and hazardous chemicals in their kitchen which could be deadly if mixed or spilled or touched. And there had been near misses, and the occasional caustic chemical burn which John didn’t mind because at least he was trying to get by on his own.

It was after one of those, when Sherlock was still particularly upset by the whole debacle over in the Hollow and they’d come home after solving the case but he was shaken up. And John was in the kitchen trying to put the kettle on because Sherlock obviously needed some tea, but everything was all wrong.

As much as John impressed upon his flatmate that things couldn’t change without letting him know, without showing him, sometimes without even thinking of anyone but himself Sherlock would re-sort the cabinets, leaving John feeling actually blind and beyond irritated because he couldn’t find the fucking tea in his own kitchen.

So he was rummaging round and sniffing things and his hand closed round a glass jar that should not be in the damned cabinet when there was a shout. Then it was knocked from his hand and there was the sound of glass shattering and this horrid smell. John’s lungs were on fire and suddenly he was being dragged out of the room and his head was shoved out of the open window.

“Breathe, damn it. Big breaths. Breathe!”

He felt for a moment, though it was an eternal moment, he would suffocate. His lungs refused to co-operate and take in the life-giving air. Then his brain and lungs clicked back in sync and he was gasping and coughing and he was sure his face was some sort of odd colour. Sherlock was blowing air from somewhere on him and his hand grasping John’s shoulders were shaking.

“You almost died!”

John shoved Sherlock away, feeling a bit more in control of himself, though perhaps a bit dizzy and worried he might need a trip to hospital. “Yes well, not entirely my fault when you put horrible chemicals where the tea should have been.”

“Maybe if you’d just asked…” he began, which set John off entirely.

“Asked? Asked of my flatmate has been disgustingly inconsiderate and put my life in danger without telling me? You think I should have to ask every time I want to make myself a fucking cuppa because you don’t have the forthright to tell your blind flatmate that you’ve put something dangerous in the food cupboard?”

Sherlock was oddly silent. The man who had a reply to everything. Fucking everything. He was silent, and John worried for a moment maybe he’d turned his implants off so he didn’t have to face the shouting. But eventually he breathed. “I didn’t think.”

“No. You didn’t think. You didn’t think that maybe I have to live life a little differently. You get to straddle the line between both worlds, Sherlock. Deaf when it works for you, and hearing when it doesn’t. And you can just flip a switch and I can’t do that. I’m always blind. I always need to touch and smell and taste things and I should be able to do that in my own home!”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Yes!” John burst out, before realising it was a sort of apology which he was absolutely unused to because Sherlock had done some seriously inconsiderate things in his time living with John and wasn’t very open with any sort of apology. “Yes. You were. A damned idiot.”

Hands reached out, taking John by the shoulders cupping his cheeks. He tiled John’s head back and John assumed Sherlock was checking his pupils and anything else to make sure he wasn’t really harmed by whatever was in the kitchen. The hands lingered though, pressing into his cheeks desperate but gentle and John found himself leaning into the touch.

“I’m afraid for you. All the time.”

John swallowed and when the hands disappeared, he felt it like a physical loss. “I know. But you shouldn’t have to be and there’s a damn easy way to do that.”

“Talk to you,” Sherlock said.

John laughed. “Don’t fucking replace my tea with poison.”


	8. Complacent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update? I can hardly believe it myself! :) xx Thank you for all the lovely comments. I promise to answer them all soon! I hope you enjoy this one. Bit more angst (emotionally) than usual, but the next chapter proves to be far more... satisfying.

8\. John Watson has never gone dancing

“You’ve been texting all day.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, but Sherlock’s tone demanded an answer anyway.

With a sigh, John swivelled in his chair toward the sound of Sherlock’s voice and popped one of his earbuds out of his ear which was currently chirping out the robotic voice of the text-to-speech. “Yes, Planning a night out.”

“With whom?” Sherlock enunciated every single letter in those two words.

“Henry Knight, if it so pleases,” John replied, now feeling irritated. Turning away, he popped the earbud back in and finished his conversation. When he was done, he left his mobile on the desk and got up for a shower, bypassing a bewildered Sherlock who hadn’t stopped staring.

“So you two are just… going out then, is it? Night on the town? Drinking and such?” Sherlock levelled the questions at John as he rummaged round for something to wear.

By the feel of things, Sherlock had been in his wardrobe again which was wholly irritating and made dressing that much more complicated. Especially since he wanted to look nice.

“Yes. Out. Drinking. Clubbing, I think the kids are calling it these days,” John replied not just a little sarcastically. “You want to come along?”

“And be a third wheel on your date? Besides, you know I don’t care for that boy.”

“That boy is older than you,” John pointed out as he managed to find a decent, long-sleeved shirt. He turned to Sherlock. “What colour is this?”

“Navy.”

“Will it do well with jeans?”

Sherlock was pointedly silent for some time. “Should be fine. Seriously, you think it’s safe to go just tromping off to some nightclub with some boy you don’t even know?”

John groaned as he slipped the shirt on, feeling for the buttons to make sure they were all done up properly. “Sherlock, it’s a night out. I wanted to tick something off my list and this sounded like a good one.”

“List? What list?”

John felt his cheeks to hot. “Your bloody list, Sherlock. The John Watson Has Never Done list. I’ve never been out dancing and I thought I’d give it a go. Henry’s in town for a little while and he offered to take me out.” There was a moment of silence, then John added, “It’s not a date, besides. Just two mates having a drink.”

“Yes, mates who then later snog and possibly blow each other off in some darkened club corner, sure.”

John’s ears were perked up at the absolute jealousy dripping from Sherlock’s tone. He’d been a nightmare lately, so John couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying Sherlock’s irritation at least a little. “It’s not a date.” He sighed, running his hands back through his hair to make sure it was in place, then he turned to his flatmate. “How do I look?”

Sherlock made a strangled sound, then stomped one foot, spat, “Fine,” and stormed off.

John stood there in silence for a moment, then let out a little giggle and shook his head. “Bloody idiot.”

Half an hour later, Sherlock came into the lounge where John was taking some tea before his night out, and he let out a huge sigh to announce his presence. “Can you even dance, John?”

John’s eyebrows perked up. “Er? I suppose I don’t know. Never tried.”

“So you’re going out dancing without even a bit of practise?”

“I didn’t think it was critical. Even if I’m crap I won’t be able to see the disgusted looks the club goers will give me.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock crossed the room, took John by the wrist, and hauled him up. Dragging him to an open space, he let John go for a second to lean over and switch on a CD which started loud, thumping, bumping, pumping music blaring through the speakers. When John winced, Sherlock turned it down a bit, then took John again by the wrist.

“It’s not complicated, but it does take a little getting to know your own body.” He pulled John close, and began to move in time to the thudding beats.

John could feel Sherlock moving against him, and he tried to will away the desire to lean in and get a little more friction. Shaking his head, he smiled instead and asked, “What’re you listening to?”

“What I can hear,” Sherlock said absently. “The heavier the bass the better I can hear it. Feel it. Helps me keep time.” He reached out and put his hand on John’s hips, swaying them in time to the beat. “I suppose you wouldn’t know because I’ve never said and you can’t see, but I’m a good dancer. A fantastic one, in fact. It’s all about rhythm.”

John’s face got blazing hot as Sherlock moved him in time with the thrumming sounds. Their bodies pressed together, turning this way and that. Sherlock had hold of his wrists now that his hips were doing fine on their own, and he moved his arms just slightly in time with the beat. John’s head started to spin, and just before he was about to give up, lean in, and kiss the man, the sound stopped.

“See, not too difficult. Think you’ve got it for the night?” Sherlock’s voice was strained, and that wasn’t lost on John, but it was clear the connection between them was cut off and John found himself standing alone.

***

The night went off just fine. He had a good time with Henry, who, as John surmised, was very straight and they had too much to drink. Way too much. They danced though, and had a good time, and John even got a couple of numbers from some women who thought the pair of dancing men were “adorable”.

But it didn’t stop John from thinking about Sherlock all night. Literally. The drunker he got, the more he just wanted to be home and be near him since Sherlock wouldn’t really give him much other than that. And Henry read the situation and eventually got a car to take John back.

Stumbling up the stairs, he lost his stick somewhere along the way, but even piss-drunk he didn’t need it. He threw his coat somewhere near the front door, and managed to make it half-way to the toilet before falling over.

His head was spinning and things were just so wonky. He barely noticed warm arms lifting him and taking him to the loo where first he pissed, then he vomited and felt like a right tit about it, but he was too drunk to say so.

Somewhere behind all the drunk he felt some measure of shame as Sherlock sorted him out and cleaned him up, and dressed him in some pyjamas and put him in bed. He tried to get his mouth to work and say things, say nice words, but his eyes closed and before long he was out.

Though it didn’t last long. Half-way through the night he woke. Still drunk, but not as drunk, and he was alone and he hated it. So he got up, stumbling a bit, hands trailing the walls til he made the familiar step-count to Sherlock’s room. He tried the knob and it was open and he moved inside.

“You awake? Ears on?”

“Why are you up?”

John couldn’t help the grin from spreading across his face as he heard the familiar timbre of this man’s voice, and he crossed the room to the bed where Sherlock was sitting up reading, and he helped himself to the empty space Sherlock left on the side of the bed.

“So drunk.”

“Yes, you are. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“M’in the bed. Yours.”

“I didn’t mean mine.”

John laughed at the dry tone and his hand pet Sherlock gently on the leg. “I meant yours. Lovely yours.” He sighed and buried his face in the pillow. “Had a nice time. Though wished he was you. Henry. Good man, that Henry. But not you.”

“You’re pissed and talking nonsense.” There was a fondness in the tone though, and John didn’t miss it.

“I have to… have to tell you something.” But instead of talking, his hand crept up along Sherlock’s arm, over his neck, over his chin and up to his cheeks. Fingers dragged along those sharp cheekbones for a moment, then he laughed. “He said you were gorgeous. Said I’d cut myself on these cheekbones.”

Sherlock’s breath came out in a puff. “Did he?”

John hummed, then trailed his fingers down toward Sherlock’s mouth. The tips of them traced the outline of Sherlock’s well-defined lips. Sherlock’s breath puffed out, shaking, over John’s fingers. Before either of them could say anything, Sherlock’s hand curled round John’s wrist and pulled his fingers away.

“Sherlock…”

“John… don’t…”

But that drew John out of his complacent fog and he sat up a bit on one elbow. He was profoundly aware of Sherlock’s fingers, hot and pressing against his cool wrist. “No. Let me. Because you never let me and I need to tell you something. I’ve been silent for so fucking long and I just need to say it.”

“Please don’t. Please.”

John felt Sherlock’s other arm move up and he knew Sherlock was about to turn his implant off, so with quick reflexes, he caught Sherlock by the sleeve and held both wrists tight. “I won’t let you turn me off til you’ve heard me.”

There was a pregnant pause and a shift, but Sherlock stayed silent, so John knew he was complying.

“I know we’ve had moments, and you care for me. And I know you don’t feel for people the way others do. I understand that and I accept that and because I’m drunk I just need you to know that in spite of all that, I love you. I’m in love with you. I tried to stop and I tried to get rid of it and I’ve come to the conclusion it doesn’t matter if you’ll never love me back the way I love you. Only that you know how I feel and I think the rest of my life I’ll be utterly and completely devoted to you. And nothing will change that. It’s only fair you know, Sherlock. It’s bloody, shitting-ass, goddamn awful sometimes, but there it is. And if you care for me one lick you’ll let me keep my dignity and let me sleep here tonight. With you.”

John didn’t expect an answer, nor did he get one. But he heard the light switch off, and Sherlock switch off his implant and take out the ear pieces and place them on the bedside table. Then the covers were pulled up round them both and a hesitant but firm hand came round John’s waist pulling him closer. John was certain Sherlock wouldn’t sleep that night, as he often didn’t, but the comfort alone in that small gesture was enough. He might be heart-wrenchingly in love with a man who could never feel it back, but he was okay with it. And he’d take what he could get.

A kiss pressed to the back of his head, low near the neck, and he felt Sherlock exhale hard and shaking against his skin. John nuzzled back and felt sleep gnawing at his consciousness.

In the morning they’d go back to the way things were and pretend this never happened, and he was okay with that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise all the things John thinks about Sherlock aren't entirely true. Next chapter will get some serious satisfaction for the ship xx


	9. Count down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've upped the rating. I intended to go for mature, but that came out a bit explicit. I hope it hasn't ruined anyone's reading enjoyment! I can say, without too many spoilers, it will be a happy ending. Just a quick poll: Reichenbach or no? And Mary or no? Your feedback is truly appreciated.

9\. John Watson has never been so bold.

He was drunk again, John. Wanted to go out again, and Sherlock went in place of his work mates since they were all busy, and John didn’t hate that so much. Sherlock attempted to keep them as sober as possible through the night, but eventually they gave in and acted like the young men they truly were and got well pissed and at one point John even vomited in the street.

Sherlock looked on, laughing like a maniac before getting a cab back to the flat. They stumbled up the stairs, gripping each other for support as they trounced into the lounge and found their usual chairs across from one another.

“I think I’ve lost my stick,” John said, feeling round him. “Think I’ve lost it ages ago.”

“You’ve got a spare,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Doesn’t suit you, besides. Clashes with all your… all your… jumpers.”

“Oh well wouldn’t want that now would I?” John retorted, leaning forward and feeling a bit like soggy spaghetti. “Wouldn’t want to clash with my jumpers. I think I’ll just bang round into things instead. At least then I’ll be in fashion.”

Sherlock groaned and reached to turn his implants off, then decided against it. “Oh you always take everything so personally. So literal. Literally. John.” Then he laughed and John started in again and they giggled til John felt like he might vomit again.

Instead of doing any of that, John slid to the floor, crawling on hands and feet toward Sherlock’s chair. He stopped when his fingers met shoes, then they trailed up Sherlock’s legs. Over the calved and across the thighs as John leant in close to his flatmate. “We should have sex. I want to have sex with you.”

“No.”

John sat back, a pout playing at his lips. “Why not? You don’t find me attractive?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point? You know I want it. I can tell there are definite moments when you do. And I’ve worked it all out, Sherlock. You do everything with such a meticulous attention to detail. Study every aspect of every act you perform. You’re bound to be the best out of anyone. Everyone, even.”

Though he couldn’t see Sherlock’s cheeks go pink, John could hear the blushing tone in his voice. “Be that as it may, it’s not a good idea.”

“Why? You think I’m going to fall hopelessly in love and spend my days miserable?” John leant forward and smacked the top of Sherlock’s thigh with his hand. “Too bloody late, my friend. I’m already there. Might as well compensate a bit for it. This tragic life I lead.”

Sherlock snorted, the shook his head. “We’re too drunk for sex. None of our bits would work right and you’d probably vomit on me.”

John sighed, then sat back on his heels. “Fine. Go ahead and make sense. See if I care.” He pouted again, then suddenly pushed himself forward, his face inches from Sherlock’s. “But you’d want to? If we weren’t so pissed?”

“Perhaps.”

“I want to have sex with you. Drunk. Sober. High. Half-dead. I don’t care. And if you want me…”

“It’s not a matter of me wanting you… You’re drunk and when you sober up, you’ll realise you don’t want to cross that line. With me.”

“I’m going to sleep in your bed tonight, Sherlock. In the morning if I wake up stone sober and still want to cross that line… with YOU… will you? Have sex with me?”

“You’ve woken up drunk before. I’ll be able to tell.”

“Is that a yes?”

John heard a humming noise, then lips pressing to his very lightly, very quickly. “Let’s get to bed, shall we?”

*** 

John fully expected to wake during the night. In fact, he laid down in Sherlock’s bed expecting not to sleep at all. He assumed if the alcohol did take over he’d wake up sometime still drunk and very horny. Instead he didn’t float toward consciousness until the sun was hitting him full in the face. With what little he could see, the light was piercing and uncomfortable, and he smashed his eyelids down, turning away from the assault and toward the wall.

He took in a breath and listened. At first he thought he was alone. Then a little bit of breath hitched and he lifted his hand. Creeping his fingers across the sheets, he reached til he was almost to the wall where his hands met flesh. Slightly chilled from being out of the blankets, but solid and unmoving.

“You’re awake.”

John cleared his throat and tried to ignore the building headache from his night of misbehaving. “I thought you’d gone.”

“Wouldn’t let you wake up alone.”

John laughed and shook his head. “Except you’ve done it a thousand times before.”

“Hardly a thousand.” Sherlock’s voice was husky and raw likely from the pain he, too, was feeling from their night of drunken antics. He cleared his throat and curled his fingers round John’s wrist, though he didn’t pull the hand away.

“You remember your promise?”

Sherlock shifted a bit closer to John. “Remember yours?”

“Mouth might be a bit…” John trailed off when he felt Sherlock scrape something with a jam-like consistency across his fingers.

“Go on. In your mouth.”

John did, and was almost overwhelmed by the effervescence of it. The mint went straight down his throat and he swore he was blowing ice out of his nostrils. “Good god what is that?”

“Concoction I came up with when I was in school. Something to hide my… extracurricular activities from my mum.”

“Lord,” John muttered, but any other words or thoughts were cut off when Sherlock closed the distance between them, pressing his body to John’s. He let out a small whimper as Sherlock cupped the sides of his face, drawing very close.

“I’m going to turn off my implants. Bit cumbersome.”

“Yes, right. Good. That’ll be… good.”

“Tap my right shoulder if you need my immediate attention.”

As Sherlock started to reach up, John groped for his hand, staying him. “We’re really doing this? You and… and me?”

“You made me promise. I never break my promises.”

John’s face pinked. “Right. Yes. And I promised it didn’t need to mean anything.”

“You did.” There was a pregnant pause. “You wanted to know if I’m the best. It’s simply for… for science, John.”

It was cold, and John shivered as he let Sherlock go. He wasn’t sure what would happen after that. His eyes were closed so he couldn’t even watch Sherlock’s blurry shadow, and he laid there, anticipating, waiting, anxious.

He wasn’t sure when Sherlock was going to move, or if he was supposed to.

Then it happened. They’d kissed before, but nothing like this. They had been quiet kisses, full of affection that no one on the planet could possibly understand between the two of them. One had been out of desperation and a sense of almost loss when Moriarty nearly killed John. Never again, Sherlock had promised, and for a while John thought it might have had a double meaning.

But not now. Not with Sherlock’s mouth on his so firm and insistent and so so fucking good. Sherlock’s lips were just the perfect shape, curving round John’s mouth as his hands ghosted over his chest and stomach. Sherlock’s tongue poked in a bit, and John could taste the incredible mint on Sherlock’s breath that was hot and coming in gasps.

John’s head rolled back as Sherlock’s mouth moved down across the side of his jaw, under his earlobe where it paused a moment until John let out a fairly incredible moan. Then it moved. John noticed Sherlock was keeping one hand on John’s chest, right up near the throat, and in the back of his mind he knew it was so he could tell when John was moaning. That thought made his cock twitch harder, and Sherlock’s free hand roamed down to inspect it.

Feeling Sherlock’s fingers down there where he so often fantasized about that touch nearly threw him over the edge and he pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder, panting. Luckily, before it could go too far, Sherlock’s fingers roamed upward.

John snapped back into himself. Yes he wanted to feel spoilt and loved and lavished upon by this man he was convinced would be the best ever. But he wanted to give it. So his hands travelled downward, slow as if to ask, ‘is this okay.’ A guttural moan when John got close to Sherlock’s hard prick gave him the consent he was looking for.

“Yes.” It was breathed into John’s ear as John’s fingers closed round the hard shaft.

John moaned as well. He’d often wondered what Sherlock’s cock would feel like on his hands. It was better than he expected. Smooth, a little moist, thumping and pumping with blood as he squeezed just so, and by god did he not expect those noises Sherlock was making but how he adored them.

Sherlock’s hands began to roam with more purpose now, finding spots and patches of skin John didn’t know could be an erogenous zone until Sherlock touched and kissed him there. Without warning he was flipped onto his back and Sherlock was doing things to his spine with his tongue that sent John into a near frenzy.

As he grew closer to that bottom bit where that waiting hole was, John sat up a little, nervous. He wasn’t inexperienced but no one had ever paid him attention like this before.

“Tell me no now if you don’t want it,” Sherlock warned, his voice thicker than usual.

John’s jaw worked, then he raised his hands and attempted to sign awkwardly over his shoulder. ‘All. Yes. More.’

He imagined Sherlock had what people described as a smirk. A smug, self-satisfied smile because it was all in his tone as Sherlock said, “Good, then. Lie down.” And he went back to work with fingers and tongue.

He teased the hole at first, then dipped into it with his fingers, then pressed his mouth and shoved his tongue so far John actually rose up a bit and shouted. It was strange but so fucking good and his cock throbbed hard and furious against the bed.

Sherlock held him down as he continued this, mixing fingers and mouth and John was very near tears before Sherlock lifted himself up and over. His posture was very telling, and John heard a condom opening. He made a weak gesture for Sherlock to get on with it, because his entire body was thrumming and humming with pleasure and he knew he needed a bit of pain to counter it or he might very well go mad.

There was lube. He heard it pouring out, then fingers back in, shoving in and out. Teasing that little spot inside him which made even the blind man see stars, and as he whimpered and begged, Sherlock’s waiting cock pressed in. Just the tip at first, stretching John wide and it hurt a bit but he had been right. He needed that. John edged his hips up a bit, shifting slightly to make entrance easier.

Sherlock’s fingers curled hard and almost rough round the sides of his hips as he yanked John’s arse into the air and with one swift, slightly stinging motion, sheathed himself.

“Oh fuck god please oh god,” John babbled as he felt himself stretch wide and the tip of Sherlock’s cock press right against his prostate. Everything started to spin, like he was running, and then the motions began. Sherlock was thumping and pumping hard, holding his hips for better purchase and riding him so fast John wasn’t sure he’d ever come down.

Then it was happening. It was building. He was rocking against Sherlock which was causing his cock to press hard against the bed. The friction was building and he was near tears when Sherlock reached round and grabbed him. Two pumps and it was done, but the orgasm seemed to stretch on forever. For an eternity it rocked his body. Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt Sherlock come, too. The thickening of the shaft, the sensation of it pumping seed into him, and the quiet cry Sherlock gave against his shoulder.

Suddenly it was cold. Sherlock had moved away and John was lying on the bed, face down, trying to catch his breath. The cool breeze from the window was wafting across his skin. It was uncomfortable and he was sticky and suddenly not sure at all what any of it meant.

He felt completely and utterly alone right then, until an arm came out and pulled the blankets round him. He signed a weak, ‘Thank you,’ with his wobbling hand, and then flopped down. A kiss pressed to his temple and he wanted to ask, “It’s not all for science, is it? Not all of it. Please just tell me you love me too, goddamn it!” But his mouth wouldn’t work and he felt Sherlock slip from the bed.

He hadn’t been chucked out. The moment had been tender. The sex had officially won over anything he had and would ever experience again. He just wasn’t sure where it left him. But he could tick that off the list now. Though at the moment he was starting to wonder if it wasn’t a list at all, but a count-down, with a devastating explosion at the end.


	10. Pub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning here- this chapter contains a bit of bullying and abelism. It's something I've seen happen and it's terrible when it does. So this may be triggering to some. However I think you'll be very satisfied with the way this chapter turns out. One more left! I've really enjoyed this series. Oh and I went with the overwhelming consensus of no Reichenbach or Mary. Which I'm happy with xx

10\. John Watson has never moved on.

Six weeks. Six weeks since they’d had sex and neither had spoken a word of it. And true, maybe Sherlock was a bit more gentle with John, and true maybe there was a genuine shift in their comfort levels with each other, but apart from that, nothing.

It had been for science. John felt a bit of a twat thinking at all that having sex with Sherlock would change his mind on things. Sherlock insisted he didn’t feel things like normal people and though John told himself before diving into bed with Sherlock that he understood that about the man he was hopelessly in love with, the truth was, he hoped it would change things.

“…thinking about it? About asking.”

John snapped to attention when he realised his lab partner was talking to him. Turning his head, he let out a puff of air. “Sorry. Sorry David I… was somewhere else. What did you say?”

David, whom he’d been working with for the last two weeks, let out a nervous chuckle. “I was saying I wanted to go out for a drink tonight and I noticed you always go straight home so I considered seeing if you wanted to go. Or anyway I was thinking about it? About asking?”

“Oh! Oh. Er…” John trailed off, his cheeks going hot. His eyes blinked rapidly as his fingers stilled over the braille display attached to his laptop. “Right er… a drink.”

“You’re seeing someone, aren’t you? Or er… God sorry was that a rude way of putting it? Seeing someone? Because you’re er…”

John felt a wash of irritation that he still had to explain to people it’s fine to use regular English when they spoke to him. “No, it’s not rude. And er I’m not… I mean… I’m…” he trailed off, feeling flustered. He wasn’t seeing anyone. Sherlock made that quite clear. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah.” There was a marked tension between them before David said, “You mind if I pop off for just a tick? Swear I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone.”

Without waiting for an answer from John, David was off. Only a second passed before another body occupied his chair, and John immediately recognised her scent. “Molly.”

“You’ve told him no? He’s really cute, you know?”

John groaned, running a hand down his face. “Well I don’t really care if he’s cute or not.”

“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”

John sighed. “I don’t need to answer that, do I?”

“If anyone can understand how you feel, it’s me. I was foolishly in love with him for… well it feels like eternity. But he’s not… he’s not like us. He’s not…”

“Normal?” John offered.

Molly sniffed. “God I hate that word, you know, because who is? You’re not. I’m certainly not. And David is delightfully different, and he really likes you. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself to actually give someone else a try? Or do you really want to be a twenty-something year old man pining away for a man who may never love you back.”

That hit John hard, because she was right. Sherlock showed no hint of ever changing—not that John wanted him to change, but knowing he could be loved back meant something—and it might just be time for John to move on.

David returned a few minutes later, and John decided to take a leap. “Tonight’s no good. But… what about tomorrow?”

*** 

He was well into his third cup of tea before he worked up the courage to tell Sherlock. “I’ve been asked out on a date.”

There was a pause so long John thought Sherlock might not have his ears on. “So?”

“So… So I was just letting you know. That er… that I’ll be out tomorrow night. Probably late. Maybe all night.”

“Fine.”

That hit John like a blow to the gut, and he let out a defeated puff of air. “Fine.”

*** 

“Another?”

“God yes.” John was on his fourth pint, and it was barely taking the edge off. Normally he’d be well pissed by now, but his nerves were keeping the pleasant drunken feeling at bay. He kept one hand gripped firmly to the table’s edge, the other either round the top of his stick or clutching onto the pint glass. He and David had managed to make some conversation, but being as they were surrounded by David’s mates, none of whom John actually knew, he was nervous and tense.

“So John… how are you liking this whole becoming a doctor business?” The voice was of a man, and John was struggling to keep up with the people there. David had done first round introductions, and no one was bothering to identify themselves when they spoke.

“It’s alright, I suppose. Something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“It’s very brave of you,” some woman—there were four in their group—said.

John tried not to roll his eyes. “No braver than David. Or anyone in my class.”

There was a collective murmur and John heard someone say, “Yeah but the limitations…” and he felt his jaw clench. David was being kind though, a bit touchy feely for John’s liking, but at least it gave him an anchor.

David brushed up on John’s arm and leant close to his ear. “Don’t mind them. They’re idiots when they’re drunk.”

John flushed. “No. It’s fine. Really.”

A little while later, John’s bladder was full and he was overwhelmed. The excuse to head off to the toilets was too good to pass up, if only to get a break from the chatter, and he started to get up from his chair when David grabbed his arm.

“Just popping off to the loo,” John said, trying to shake him off.

“Shall I take you there?”

“Ah no. Honestly, I’ve been working out my toilet habits since I was a toddler.” He tried to keep the snark out of his voice, but failed a bit. David’s arm eased up, though, and John smiled. “If you can point me in the right direction. Just use clock hands, where I’m facing will be the twelve.”

David sputtered a bit, then said, “It’s at about two o’clock. Past some tables. Mind the step as you head into that corridor though. You sure you don’t need a hand.”

“I’ve got it.” Grabbing his stick, John navigated carefully, knowing full well he could grab a stranger if he got lost. Which he didn’t. His stick caught the step and he made it to the loo, feeling the braille label before stepping in. He was able to relieve himself and even took his time. When he moved to step out, however, he was met with a familiar smell. Chemicals and some sort of musky, woodsy soap.

“Sherlock. Are you following me?”

“I didn’t trust him.”

John let out an exasperated sigh. “Jesus. You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to. I could read him from outside the pub. You should leave.”

“What? Leave the nice man who’s actually attracted to me and I might have a future with?”

“There’s no future there, John. He’s using you.”

John barked out a laugh. “Oh for God’s sake. What the bloody hell could he be using me for?”

There was a tense silence before Sherlock answered. “The same reason men wanted to date me when I was younger. The kink. The disability. How many times did I date some twat who thought they were clever, thinking I couldn’t hear them if they turned their face away? Thinking it was sexy or funny because I talked different and it was all a game. To bed me and make one big joke out of it.”

John’s face went bright red. “It’s not like that. Jesus.” His heart clenched at the thought anyone would do that to Sherlock, to date him because they thought his Deafness was some sort of gimmick. He knew that sort of thing happened, but it had never happened to him. Granted he’d never really dated before but… lord David wasn’t that sort.

“He’s up at the bar with one of his mates if you don’t believe me.”

John didn’t need to see to know Sherlock had offered his arm. Taking it, he situated himself behind Sherlock, a position they’d used before in cases where they couldn’t be spotted by someone. He folded his stick and slipped it into his pocket before following Sherlock into the corridor. With careful, measured steps, he followed Sherlock toward the main pub and stopped. Straining his ears, it took him a moment to find David’s voice.

“You like him though?” It was someone from the table, but John couldn’t put a name to the voice.

“He’s alright I guess. Not too bad to look at. Eyes are a bit weird though, you notice that?”

“Yeah. Bit all over the place.”

“Yeah. Maybe I could get him to like… train up and stop. You know, I mean, I suppose in private it’s not so weird but people stare.”

“You could buy him shades.”

David laughed. “I could do, yeah. Wonder why he doesn’t wear them. I mean with how weird he looks you’d think he would.”

“So you think you really want to go for it?”

David paused. “Yeah I think I’ll give it a go. Mark told me he’s done a blind girl once. Said it was the greatest shag he ever had. Dated for a year those two. And the best part was, he could give his digits out any time he wanted and she was none the wiser. I could get blowies in any pub and he wouldn’t ever know it.”

“Ah that’s cold, mate.”

“It’s clever is what it is. I bet he’ll just be happy to have a boyfriend. Can’t imagine he’s done it much. Judy thinks he’s a virgin.”

John didn’t listen to any more. His ears were buzzing and he was full of white-hot rage. Sherlock’s voice was in his ear suddenly, and immediately calming. “I’m taking you out of here, John, but I need to do something first.”

John should have stopped him. He knew it. But instead he hung back and listened for the scuffle and the sound of fist meeting flesh and David’s cry as he hit the ground. Then Sherlock was back for John and they started toward the exit, but not before Sherlock stopped again.

“You could have been the luckiest man alive. Instead you’re lying on the ground with a broken nose and cracked jaw, all because you didn’t realise the person you had willing to give you a chance. I trust you won’t make another mistake like this again.”

John’s heart was racing as they left the pub before they could be thrown out, and they hurried to the street where Sherlock parked his motorbike. He climbed on, then John next, holding on tight, and neither said a word as they sped down the street.

John noticed they didn’t head straight for home, and pretty soon they were out of London and John wasn’t sure where, but it was a bit colder and he could tell it was getting late. They eventually paused, somewhere quiet that smelled very green and very wet, and Sherlock killed the engine.

“What are you doing?” John asked. “Where the hell are we?”

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

With a sigh, John climbed from the bike and massaged his sore thighs a bit, kicking out his feet to stretch his calves. “He was an arse.”

“You’re hurt.”

John was hurt. He was hurt and confused, but not just by David. David was just some person he wasn’t invested in, and his pain ran far deeper than a crap date and abelist jerk who didn’t understand blind people. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“You should.”

“Well I don’t want to. Because you won’t like what I’ve got to say, and really it’ll just make things worse because I want things to be different and they never will be.”

Sherlock sat silent for a while. “You want them to be different. Meaning you want me to love you.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to care for you the way you care for me?”

“Yes!”

“You want me to tell you that in spite of my shit ability to feel things the way normal, boring people do, you’ve changed that about me and now I can’t get you out of my head.”

“Yes! God damn it. Yes I do and I know it’s never going to happen and I can’t live like this.” There was a tense pause. “I should move out.”

Sherlock sucked in his breath, and then suddenly he was on John, grabbed him by the face and he was kissing him. “I’m not sure who the bigger idiot is. You or me.”

“What?” John’s head was spinning and he was clinging to the front of Sherlock’s riding jacket.

“You really are blind. I mean, you are, but you’re blind, John. You couldn’t see every bloody day what you do to me.”

“I… what? What?! Why did you… you said…” John couldn’t form a proper sentence as Sherlock stood there and held him.

“Some day you’re going to wake up and realise what a shit decision you’ve made in falling in love with me, John. Some day you’re going to wake up and realise you deserve more than some apathetic arse who feels half an emotion on a good day. But damn it if I don’t love you and if you want to move on, I won’t stop you. But if you want to stay…”

“If I want to stay?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “If you want to stay, I won’t stop you. But I’m not going to change, John. We’re not going to live some romance like in the Notebook. I’m not… I can’t…”

“I don’t want you different,” John said, his voice raw, fingers grasping harder at Sherlock’s front. “I fell in love with the apathetic arse you are. I just… I need to know we have something. That you… that we…”

Sherlock kissed him again, and this time it was different. It was every emotion Sherlock ever felt poured into one gesture. It was every word he could never bring himself to say and they fell down in the soft dirt on the side of the road and kissed so hard John thought for a moment he’d never catch his breath.

When they broke apart, John was leaning over Sherlock and he brought his fingers up to trace Sherlock’s swollen lips. “I love you, you stupid git. You are the biggest idiot of them all.”

Sherlock growled a little as he let John touch his lips and cheeks. “My brother asked me when he could expect a happy announcement.”

John laughed and nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck. “Tell him I fancy a spring wedding. And I hope he knows a good baker.”

Sherlock laughed. “Oh believe me, if anyone knows a decent baker, It’s Mycroft.”


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we've reached the end. I hope I did the story justice. I think I lost sight of what this was supposed to be (just anecdotal stories... got a bit of a plot there at the end, didn't it?) But I still enjoyed writing it. Hope you've enjoyed reading it. I'll definitely consider doing more in this verse since it was fun and young!lock is just adorable. Let me know what you thought!

“He’s buying cigarettes, isn’t he?” John was uncomfortable in the car Mycroft hired to get them north, but mostly he was uncomfortable with not knowing who the driver was and the area of Ireland they were going to. They were sitting outside a shop now, because Sherlock had ‘forgotten a few things’ and John was pretty sure the only thing Sherlock was after were cigarettes since any time the subject of his parents arose he started to smoke. It was like a compulsion.

Mycroft sighed. “You know just as well what he’s up to.”

John pressed the side of his forehead to the chilly window. The heater was blasting because, as Mycroft said earlier, “I just can’t keep warm anymore,” and John was sweating bullets. Sherlock explained it later Mycroft had dropped nearly two stone and was still going with his diet and exercise regimen. Of course John had never known Mycroft was portly at all, never really mattered.

“You think this is going to go well? This visit?”

There was a marked silence before Mycroft answered. “Holidays with our parents rarely go over… well, as you might expect. Sherlock has always been a difficult child.”

“He’s hardly a child now, though, is he?”

There was a small snort and Mycroft said, “That’s debatable.”

John hummed, hardly able to argue as Sherlock was very much a child sometimes, but he really did hope this visit would go well. He’d happened upon the Holmeses once, completely by accident as they were visiting Sherlock one afternoon when John got back from hospital. Sherlock didn’t bother to make introductions and John assumed they were clients until Sherlock said dismissively, “Them? Oh no one important. Only my parents.”

Since then Sherlock’s parents, who hadn’t been told there was a flatmate at all, let alone a boyfriend, had been ringing weekly asking Sherlock to bring John for a visit. Likewise John had been on about it until finally, for Christmas, Sherlock agreed to meet his parents in Ireland at a small, old family cottage they used for the occasional holiday gathering.

They insisted Mycroft come as well, to Sherlock’s dismay. He ranted about it for hours after. “He’s insufferable now that he’s got his government job. Insufferable. Never shuts up. I don’t want to spend an entire bloody car ride listening to him talk about how if I’d just done better I could be where he is. If I’d just put my mind to it I could have an office and an assistant and run the bleeding country. He’s out of his mind if he thinks I want that job.” He deflated a bit after that, plopping down on the couch and putting one leg up over John’s lap. “Wouldn’t hire me anyway. Deaf and all that.”

“Oh I hardly think that would be an issue,” John said, petting Sherlock’s naked ankle where the cuff of his trousers had gone up a bit. “You just don’t want to be in a job where you’d risk Mycroft being able to tell you what to do.”

“Insufferable. Always has been, always will be.”

But in the end they plucked up the courage to lock themselves in the car with the eldest Holmes and for Mycroft, he was rather pleasant.

“You know they’re going to love you. If you’re fussed about that, don’t be. Just prepare yourself for mum’s terrible habits of being… overbearing.”

John sighed, but said nothing as the door opened and a burst of frigid wind blasted him in the face. He shivered as Sherlock climbed into the seat beside him, and almost laughed when the detective leant forward and tapped the back of the driver’s seat.

“Good to go. Just get us there in one piece, will you?”

“Don’t be rude,” Mycroft nattered.

Sherlock, as usual, ignored him. He reached over and shoved his hands into the sleeves of John’s jumper. Gasping, John quickly pulled away, then took the frozen digits in his own hands and rubbed them til they warmed.

“Got what you needed, then?”

“Just a few supplies.”

John hummed and shook his head. “You know I’m almost a doctor, right? I can’t entirely condone such a shit habit.”

“All doctor’s smoke,” Sherlock muttered. “Besides, my dad will have you on scotch and cigars in hours. Just wait.”

“Those are absolutely different.” John was pleased by that. He could do with a good scotch and cigar, and he was warmed inside thinking it might be a pleasant visit after all.

*** 

Everything John imagined about Sherlock’s parents was absolutely wrong. Absolutely. Mycroft and Sherlock complained, of course, but John still expected something a lot less… less… normal. He didn’t expect warm kisses to his cheeks or an immediate cup of hot tea, or a pleasant voice nagging Sherlock and Mike, as she called him, how their days and jobs and lives were going. He did particularly enjoy the ear-chewing Sherlock got over not telling his parents about his relationship.

Then he answered his own awkward questions about his job and schooling and all that. “Sherlock talked me into it,” John said as he was served up a bit of toast with some soft French cheese. “Didn’t ever consider it an option, but he wouldn’t let it go.”

“That’s Sherlock,” she said with a hearty laugh. “Never tell that boy something’s impossible. He’ll prove you wrong.”

“I’ve noticed.” John smiled a little into his gooey toast.

Sherlock then set in on his mum, along with Myroft, and about ten minutes later, a warm arm touched John’s shoulder. He felt a person lean in, and a whiskey-soured puff of air hit his face as the person whispered, “A little bird told me you’d enjoy a bit of scotch and a cigar? Away from all this nattering?”

John grinned and nodded, rising from the table and he took the arm of Sherlock’s dad. They moved into the lounge, the air warm and crackling with the sounds of fire.

“Chair directly to your left. We can escape that nonsense, it’ll go on long enough, believe me.” 

John reached out, finding the chair and taking as seat as he listened to Sherlock’s dad pop the top off a glass bottle and pour the liquid into glasses. 

“Do this a lot then, do they?”

“Neither of my boys warned you?” He chortled and touched the back of John’s fingers with the glass. “It’ll be all week, this nonsense, but we’ve plenty of places to escape if we need to.”

John’s face warmed with pleasure as he sipped the expensive liquor and then accepted the lit cigar which tasted like heaven. He wasn’t much of a smoker, but in his schooling days, his tutor would reward him from time to time with a nice cigar and conversation whilst his mother was out doing the shopping. His tutor wasn’t the best, but for the most part treated him like a normal human being and John clung to those moments. Well, until he met Sherlock, that is.

“So John. Tell me about yourself. I told Sherlock to have you invite your family but he insisted they wouldn’t be interested in joining us.”

“They wouldn’t be,” John said, thinking on how he hadn’t spoken to his mum for almost two years now, and what she might say if he even tried to ring her with an invite. He sipped his drink and puffed on a bit of the smoke before going on. “My mum wasn’t happy about me leaving home.”

“Leaving home? How old are you, son?”

“Twenty-five this year.”

Mr Holmes choked a bit. “She’s not happy about her twenty-five year old son leaving home?”

“She was a bit… over protective. I think she assumed I’d never leave home or be on my own.” John shrugged up one shoulder and settled back further into the cushion of the chair. “I never thought much on it. Well that’s not true, I was miserable, but I just assumed that was my life.”

“Then my boy came to turn it all lopsided, did he?” There was a laugh in his voice which made John smile. “How did Sherlock find you?”

“Ah we were at a café. Mum and I were having tea, I suppose Sherlock was already there, I’m not sure. He saw mum and I row over cutting my food up…”

“Cutting your food up?”

“It’s… embarrassing.” John felt his face flush at the thought of how often his mum did that in public, with the whole world to see her treating him like an infant. “She got in the queue to order some meats for the week and Sherlock popped over, asked me if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorbike and then… it just sort of… went from there.” He trailed off, head shaking.

“That sounds like Sherlock. Bit of a whirlwind that one.” There was a long pause before Mr Holmes spoke again. “Are you happy?”

John sat forward a little in surprise. “Happy?”

Mr Holmes chuckled and reached out to squeeze John’s arm a bit. “Has no one bothered to ask you that?”

John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, then he let out a long sigh. “I suppose not. But it’s not really up to other people, is it? I think if I were any other person, if this were any other circumstance, I likely wouldn’t be. But with Sherlock I’ve been given a freedom I didn’t think I’d get in my life. And I think too many people rely on being happy when they should be more worried about being content.”

“Sherlock’s a genius. We all know this. Takes after his mum, you know. But I can tell John, you’re the smart one.” John could hear him taking a long drink, then a few puffs off the cigar. “You know, I badger myself every day on whether or not we did that boy an injustice with those bloody implants. He was poorly a lot when he was younger, and I think we both wanted him to have the best start he could. The doctors were all for it. Such a young procedure at the time, but the doctor said he could have a normal life and we got so caught up in that idea. We didn’t bother to think maybe normal wasn’t was Sherlock needed. Or, in all reality, trying to define what would be normal for him. And I think he was then left out a bit from both worlds and until he found you, he didn’t really have a place.”

“Oh no. Oh I don’t…”

“I mean that sincerely, John,” Mr Holmes interrupted. “I know we’ve only just met, but if you don’t think the change in that boy isn’t palpable, well you aren’t paying very good attention. I never thought anyone could be good for that boy, but I was wrong.”

John felt his whole face go molten hot, and he bowed his head a little. Then, with a small chuckle, he said, “Who’d’ve thought it would be a blind man, eh? Falling in love with a deaf one.”

Mr Holmes was quiet for a moment, then John heard the soft chuckles. They got louder, then became full blown laughter as John joined and there was a comfort that wasn’t there before which settled between them. John might have lost his other family, but he gained one who believed he was exactly the man he was born to be.

*** 

It was near midnight when Sherlock came to bed. John had excused himself much earlier, the scotch doing a number on him, and he woke a bit when Sherlock climbed beneath the duvet and curled round his body.

“Mmm, time’s it?”

“Late.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to the back of John’s head as his hand snaked round his belly, his fingers pressing against the soft skin there. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No s’fine.” John gave a loud yawn and nuzzled back against Sherlock. “You have a nice time with your folks?”

“It’s hard to define forced holidays with my family as nice. But I suppose they’ve gone worse.” Sherlock paused and then said, “I overheard you with my dad.”

“Ah.” John stilled, wondering if something he’d said had offended Sherlock.

“He’s right, you know. You’ve been better for me than anyone. I’ve also been drinking a bit so don’t expect me to repeat this in the morning.”

John laughed and relaxed. “Never. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Sherlock reached up to take his ears out, but paused and then leant in to John’s side. “Have we got enough done with your list? Things you’ve never done? I feel like we’ve abandoned it in favour of other things lately.”

John laughed and shifted so he was facing Sherlock. His hand came out, trailing up Sherlock’s arm, coming to rest in the crook of his neck just under his jaw. His fingers played with Sherlock’s curls resting at the nape. “I think I’ve stopped worrying about it. Every day seems like there’s something new. It’s hard to tick off the daily adventures and honestly, that’s all I wanted.”

Sherlock hummed. “Taking my ears out now.” He did so, placing the pieces on the bedside table, then turned back to John. He curled one hand over John’s in case there was anything else left for John to say, then he whispered, “I just have one more thing for you. Then I think we can put a close to the things John Watson has never done.”

*** 

John was absolutely shaking. Trembling like a tree in a storm as he gripped the controls. It was too damn loud and he didn’t know how the bloody hell Sherlock had talked him into this. The noise-cancelling headphones didn’t actually cancel out much of the noise at all as they were hurtling through the air, and he had a sudden suspicion, which ripped open a full-blown fear that Sherlock had never done this either.

“I’ve changed my mind, Sherlock. Get us down. Get me the hell out of here.”

There was a laugh in the speaker of the headphones and Sherlock nudged him. “Don’t panic John, you’re doing great.”

“Great? I’m fucking flying blind, you idiot. What made you think this was a good idea?”

“Wasn’t mine. Mycroft came up with it. He’s the one who got clearance for us to use the helicopter in the first place.”

“Please tell me you’ve flown before.”

“…”

“Jesus God in heaven, someone send help.”

“Lord, I’m only joking, John. Lighten up. Look, we’ll do a few circles, then I’ll guide you down. Honestly how many blind men can say they’ve piloted a helicopter in government restricted airspace.”

“Restricted?” John’s terror went into absolute panic and his chest heaved. “Jesus, we’re going to get shot down, aren’t we?”

“You truly think I’d put you in that kind of danger?” The voice that came over the mic was familiar, and it took John a second to put Mycroft’s name to it. “Calm down, Watson. You’re in good hands. Follow his instructions to the letter and I’m sure there won’t be an incident.”

John attempted to do so, and following Sherlock’s very detailed, very careful instructions, they made a few loops round the air, then, by some bloody miracle, they were on the ground. John couldn’t throw the gear off fast enough, and he didn’t start breathing rationally until his feet were firmly planted on the ground.

Sherlock’s arm came round him and he wasn’t sure whether to hit his lover or kiss him, and instead allowed Sherlock to lead him inside to a quiet table where a cup of tea was pushed into his hands. He gripped the paper cup tight enough to make it bow a bit, and he was shaking as he took his first sip.

“That was mad. Please I do not want to do that again. Ever.”

“You were brilliant, though,” Sherlock said. “And it might come in handy some day.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “How? How the hell would that ever come in handy?”

“Oh who knows. We may find ourselves in pursuit of Moriarty though the air. What if I’m shot? Hmm? Or temporarily incapacitated? Now that you can handle a car on the ground…”

“Hardly handle it,” John interrupted.

“… I thought it wise you find yourself able to handle something in the air. And we lived, so you can breathe, John.”

“I hate you.”

Sherlock leant across the table, surprising John with a kiss, and though he was well furious with his lover, he couldn’t help but smile. He felt the lips touching his curve up at the corners, and when Sherlock pulled away, he said, “Ah you only want to hate me. You know you can’t.”

“No,” John conceded. “And god help me.”


End file.
